


If It's Any Consolation

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-TFP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 17:31:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12304104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The story of John and Sherlock post series four, picking up seconds after The Final Problem. Cases are solved. People who are dead may not actually be dead. Characters from the past come back. Plot holes are filled. Arcs are completed. It's a monster, but it's our monster.





	1. Strawberry and Fig

John collapsed the minute he got through the door. He sat with his head leaned against the wall, two feet from the doorway, grey blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. It was over. Finally.  

After staring into space for a short eternity,  John hauled himself to his feet and walked into the kitchen. He took a mug down from the kitchen cabinet. John didn’t really  _ want  _ coffee, but there was nothing else to do. While the machine gurgled on the counter, he became concerned about Sherlock. In all the post-problem chaos, they hadn’t been able to talk about anything...the bones in the well, Mycroft. Eurus. John smirked as he dislodged the steaming pot from the coffee-maker. “It’s never twins.” What about sisters? He sat down at the kitchen table and stared at his home phone while the oaky aroma of espresso filled the room. He should really call Sherlock. No one else was going to do it. Mycroft was still out “arranging” things. Sherlock would be in Mycroft’s big house all alone. John reached across the table and grabbed his home phone before he could change his mind. 

With slightly trembling fingers, he dialed Sherlock’s number. He took a deep swallow of coffee. The sound of the phone ringing echoed in his empty house. And then--a click. Sherlock had picked up. John hesitated, unsure of himself. Luckily, in an unusual fit of social awareness, Sherlock decided to speak first.

“...Hi.” 

“Hey. I just wanted to...er...make sure you’re alright.”

“That’s kind.” 

Sherlock had started doing this just recently, and John didn’t know how to feel about it. 

_ Happy Birthday.  _

_ Thank you John, that’s kind of you.  _

He shook the memory away and continued, intent on getting some real answers out of Sherlock.  

“How are you feeling?” 

“I’m--”

“And don’t just say you’re fine.” 

“If you would let me finish, John. I’m not doing...great. Stupid idea to punch the coffin. Real wood. Real splinters.” More silence. They were getting good at these long pauses; it was almost like a game. 

“Come over.” John pressed a hand flat to his table. Why,  _ why _ \--but he didn’t know. The words just popped out of his mouth. 

“Alright.” And Sherlock hung up.

Just like that, everything was different again. These days, they went from cold to intimate within seconds, strangers one moment, friends the next. John didn’t dwell on it. He finished his coffee in a few rapid gulps and shuffled into his living room. Fortunately, Mary had insisted on getting a pull out sofa. He flicked on a couple lamps and began assembling the bed. It was strange to think that Sherlock would be sleeping there, on that cheap mattress, in John’s sheets. In John’s home. Well, it  _ shouldn’t  _ be strange given all those years of flat-sharing, but Sherlock had never shown an interest in John’s home. He had only visited twice: once to take John on a case, and once for the baby shower.  _ Probably allergic to all the domesticity _ , John thought.  _ And the throw pillows.  _

The doorbell rang. John dropped the bedclothes he had retrieved from the upstairs closet and went to answer it. Wordlessly, he drew it open and Sherlock stepped inside. His gait was all wrong. It was less sure than normal, almost shy. John pointed to the kitchen. “Coffee?” For the first time since they had been picked up outside of Musgrave Hall, Sherlock met John’s eyes. He looked tired. More than tired, exhausted. There was purple beginning underneath his eyes and his porcelain complexion had waxed over with grey. Everything about him was wrong.  _ Eurus.  _ John felt a flare of bitter hatred. Sherlock passed into the kitchen and sat down in John’s chair. He was oddly silent. 

John busied himself with making the coffee. He waited for Sherlock. Just like he always did. Because it was always  _ him _ ; it was always  _ Sherlock  _ who grasped the threads of the universe and knit them into patterns, it was always  _ Sherlock  _ who understood. Now, however, the detective seemed to be at a loss for words. John set the mug down in front of him and sank into Mary’s chair across the table. There was no word of thanks. A corner of John glowed with love.  _ He never says thank you.  _ Sherlock was the first to speak. 

“Mycroft knew, all those years. Every single time he reminded me of Redbeard. And I loathed him.”

“Listen, you don’t have to--”

“He’s not an idiot. He knew he couldn’t keep me in the dark forever. And yet he lied, and he lied, and he  _ lied. _ ” Sherlock was shaking with anger. He slammed the table, making the cup jump. 

“For what? For all of this? Dragging you into everything...what a stupid idea. We all could have died. I’m surprised we didn’t. Or, maybe, I’m not. Sentiment. Always found in the losing side. Mycroft thought he could... _ protect  _ me, whatever that means, and he got sloppy, he got emotional. I’m--”

“Human, remember? It’s alright, okay, it’s over now. Done.”

Sherlock’s pale, outstretched hand fluttered on the table and John resisted the urge to reach out and grab it. There was something so potently beautiful about that hand. Fast, agitated, out of control. Like Sherlock’s mind. “God, I’m fucking tired.” John jerked his head up. Sherlock never swore. John got up and turned in the direction of the stairs. “I’ll get you some clothes.” Sherlock nodded mutely, drained his cup, and went into the living room. Docile. Polite. A houseguest.

After spending a few agonizing minutes picking out clothes for Sherlock, John shucked his jeans and shirt and put on his own pajamas. He went back downstairs holding a very old pair of pants and a greyed t-shirt that had stretched out in the wash. Sherlock received the clothes with a slightly distasteful expression. Inwardly, John laughed.  _ The posh boy misses all his robes.  _ Then he realized he was still standing in the living room while Sherlock was taking off his shirt, got confused about where to look, and retreated into the hall. All that cream-colored skin. Sherlock’s collarbones, dusky shadow, vanilla. He thrust the images violently from his thoughts and reentered the room. 

This was not the time. 

“The sofa’s a bit squeaky, but otherwise…” John rubbed a finger behind his ear. 

“It’s fine.” Sherlock sat down, the shirt exposing his bare arms. It was always odd to see Sherlock without his fancy shirts and jackets. Without his armor, he looked like a petulant child. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” At this point, the barest shades of gold had begun filtering through the blinds. Dawn.  _ Dawn.  _ Even the word felt impossible in John’s mind. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the pull-out and folded his hands together. John took a seat next to him. He suddenly felt very large, not really in body, but in form, as though his sheer presence was taking up a monstrous amount of room. 

“I just keep on seeing her, you know.That bedraggled black hair, those unseeing eyes. A human never meant to be human. The consciousness and intellect of a million funnelled into a single person.” 

“Right. Well.”

“Her game was predictable.” 

John scoffed. “Yeah, ‘course.” 

“No, it was. You should know, of all people. When we first met, what was the one thing you couldn’t believe about me?” 

“Oh come on--”

“John, think.” 

“The suppression thing. The pushing-it-all-down. Definitely that.” 

“Don’t you want to know? Everyone’s  _ dying  _ to know.  _ How far until he snaps?  _ It’s all the same. Pressure points, emotional context. Whatever you want to call it, all these people are just  _ curious. _ ” He spit out the word like it was poison, and John flinched at his sudden wrath. Sherlock’s anger was nearly visible. 

Unconsciously, they shifted closer together on the little pull-out, both in their pajamas, like boys at a sleepover. A very weird, very tense sleepover. Sherlock let out a long, tired sigh. “You need to sleep,” John said. “You’ve been working overtime. Just...get a few hours, yeah?” With a resigned nod, Sherlock lay back on the pull-out and stared at the ceiling. Lying there on the soft blue blanket he looked about twelve years old. John’s heart, gruff as it was, went out to Sherlock with the force of years. He was not a man inclined towards intimate friends, and yet there he was, sitting on a tiny pull-out bed, in a quiet living room, with nothing but all the time in the world. 

~✶~

John awoke late in the afternoon on his stomach. Groaning, he pulled the sheets tighter over his chest and looked at the clock on the bedside table. 3:57 pm. Far too late to go into the office now.  _ Family emergency. Something came up.  _ His staff would understand. Especially given...Mary. He pressed his fists over his eyes. And it all came back. The blood on the wall, the tip of the gun pressed into Sherlock’s chin, the water, everywhere, closing in, about to drown him, bleeding through the walls, rising out of the floor, dislocating books, picture frames, slippers, clothing--A hand gripped John’s arm. “Stop it. John.  _ John. _ ” John’s eyes fluttered open and he was met with Sherlock’s, wide with alarm, green as a garden. “What’s going on, what’s ‘appened?” his words bumped into each other and dissipated into mangled slurs. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Was I crying out?” Sherlock nodded and stood up straight. “You were saying ‘Oh God, oh God’ over and over again and I was trying to concentrate so I woke you up. Really, John, if you’re going to talk in your sleep, it would be gracious of you to keep the volume down.” With that, Sherlock turned on his heel and padded back down to the kitchen. A little put out, John flopped back down.  _ Prick. Better than bitter Sherlock, though.  _

They breakfasted on toast and jams made by one of John’s receptionists. Strawberry and fig. Sherlock made tea. That morning, Sherlock seemed particularly hungry, and devoured several slices of bread without thinking anything of it. Sleep had done him wonders and he appeared reinvigorated. Eurus’ game was still fresh in his mind, though, and as John ate, he wondered when Sherlock would bring it up again.  

Since it was too late to work, John decided to call up Stamford and his wife. “Hi. Yeah, I’m back. Long story. I’ll tell you all about it later. Where’s Rosie?” He felt a pang of guilt for not calling Stamford sooner. “Down for a nap? Thank you, Mike. I really appreciate it. Listen, d’you think it would be possible for me to swing by and pick her up? In half an hour? Great. Yeah. Alright. Thanks, really. Means a lot.” He hung up the phone. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, writing an email to Mycroft on John’s laptop. “Do you want to come with me?” 

Sherlock shut the computer with a snap. “Why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it. This is probably my third (?) long form fic. I hope to update at least every weekend, but God knows if that's going to happen. Let me know what you think!
> 
> -P


	2. Reconstruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Lestrade go on loosely defined dates. 221B is filled with friends, new and old.

Molly had a date. His name was Reagan. One of Lestrade’s buddies. According to the detective inspector, he was red-haired, freckled, and remarkably well-mannered. Molly was dreading it. She slipped on a black sweater. Almost as an afterthought, she added a necklace with a tiny blue charm. She felt good. She looked good. She did not think about the I love you. On her way out, Molly stooped to pet her cat, Samuel. “Seeya, Sam,” she whispered into his calico fur, feeling slightly silly. It was six by the time she left the house.

They were meeting in a restaurant, an Italian one. Molly had suggested it. As she drove, she felt her heart hammering in her chest. It was ridiculous to be nervous. Hadn’t she been engaged at one point? She thought of Lestrade. You’re gonna like him. He’s really great. Just be yourself. It’ll be fine. I’ll put in a good word for you. For some reason, thinking of him calmed her down and she was able to drive to the restaurant without incident. Still, she did not think about the I love you.

It was a nice enough place, with modern decor, and a pleasantly humming atmosphere. Loud enough to mask a gap in conversation, quiet enough to carry on talking at all. Perfect. Molly walked up to the hostess. “Two, please?” she said softly. The hostess’ eyes flickered upwards from her screen. “Sorry?” she said. Molly noticed that her eyes were sharply defined with eyeliner. She reminded Molly of Irene Adler. I love-- “Two, please,” Molly repeated, a little louder. The hostess nodded, tapped something on her tablet, and gathered up two menus. “Right this way.”

Reagan arrived not three minutes later. He was a tall man, taller, even, than Sherlock, and he had the bearing of a person who didn’t quite know how to fit into his own body. His nose was a bit on the long side, but he had a pleasant smile, and pretty fingers, and Molly felt herself growing hopeful. She stood up when he arrived. He was wearing an olive green coat over dark jeans and a heathered sweater.

“Molly,” she said, holding out her hand. He grasped it briefly in his, the contact warm, but reaffirming. His hazel eyes met hers and his gaze was kind. “I’m Finn Reagan, but everyone calls me Reagan. How are you? I hope I didn’t keep you long.” He pulled out his chair and sat down, folding his long legs underneath the table like he was stacking skis. “I’m good, thanks. And no, not at all. I was hardly here five minutes.”

“Lestrade goes on and on about you. All the time. Never shuts up about you. Amazing at her work, whip smart….all that. Are the rumors true?”  
“Well...I dunno. Maybe some more than others.”  
I love you. Molly gripped the table. The candle in between them wavered almost imperceptibly, like it was about to go out. Probably just her imagination. Definitely.  
“You look amazing. Lestrade, for all his this and that, doesn’t do you justice.” His smile was charming, and sweet, like hot chocolate. She played with her necklace. This could work.  
“You’re just saying that.”  
“I’m not!”  
“What do you do? For work?”  
“I own a bookstore, actually. Called Dogeared. Hipsters love it. Business is good.” A waitress came over to take their orders. Molly got the pomodoro pasta. Reagan ordered spaghetti and sausage.

Four days, since the I love you, and Molly still couldn’t get it out of her head. When he called to explain himself later on, Molly had started crying. She loved him so much, so much. And he did not love her at all. Yes, he cared for her, in a friendly, loyal way, but he did not love her. Molly wasn’t angry, she just felt...small. Insignificant, unimportant, microscopic. Like nothing, like no one.

After he called, Molly resolved to stop loving him. I need to move on, she thought to herself. Everyone needs to move on. John, too.

“I love bookstores. It’s sad that a lot of the bigger ones have consumed the independents.”  
“Don’t I know it. But Dogeared does well. We’re thinking of opening another location.”  
“That’s great! My job isn’t so rewarding. It’s a lot of cadavers.” Molly tested his reaction. A slight double-take, a tiny wrinkle of confusion, and then gone. He did not think she was weird.  
“Must be fascinating. The only dead person I’ve ever seen is my great Aunt Marian.”  
“Yes, well, sometimes it’s rather a lot.” I love you. I use you. I think of you last, always. “Otherwise, though...well, I’m lucky. The work is good, and Lestrade always makes sure to send me the interesting cases.”  
“Lestrade mentioned you both know Sherlock Holmes. That’s wild. I followed Doctor John’s blog, you know.”

Hearing John referred to as “Doctor John” made Molly smile, and the effect this expression had on Reagan was even more satisfying.  
“John Watson. Yes, I know both of them. He’s a very puffy, good-natured sort, although a little short sometimes. And Sherlock’s--” She stopped. He was...what? Tall? Bryonic? Almost supernaturally good-looking? Incredibly charismatic, beautifully tragic, occasionally sweet?

“Sherlock is a handful.”

The rest of the date went well. Their food came, and was surprisingly good. Reagan made no bones about paying for Molly’s dinner. He was a gentleman, through and through, soft-spoken, and sporadically brilliant, with none of Sherlock’s crudeness or enigmatic glitter. And he treated her like a person, a real person, who existed and lived a life outside of Bart’s. What’s more, Reagan actually liked her. Molly could tell. It had been a long time since she last felt the stammer-stutter of mutual attraction, but there it was, all honey blushes, and accidental touches. She did not invite him back to her apartment, and he did not invite her back to his. Still, they parted ways with an agreement to meet up again soon, and Molly smiled all the way home.

The I love you was nowhere.

~✶~

“He said you weren’t the one.” Lestrade was lying on his bed, looking up at the ceiling of his apartment, the latter half of his body naked. Stella Hopkins brushed her dark hair back from her forehead. He could smell the sweat drying on her collarbones. “Why do you always take his word to be gospel? He’s wrong sometimes, you know. And what makes him the expert on--” She stopped herself, fidgeting between the words “love” and “romance.” She decided on “relationships.”

Theirs had started out as a casual fling. And now...it wasn’t. Kind of. They hadn’t really talked about it yet. But it was fun to have this again, this connection with another human being. He liked Stella. He would continue liking her as much as he wanted. As if to confirm this point, he leaned over and gave her a kiss, eliciting a surprised murmur that passed from her lips to his. She hooked an elbow around his neck and pulled him closer. Twenty years between them, and yet, when they were like this, it felt like none. In a an unusual fit of tenderness, she threaded her fingers through his silvering hair and they both laughed, delirious with happiness.

The next morning, Stella was up before him. She was sitting in the window seat, wearing one of his t-shirts, engrossed in a novel. Maurice. Interesting choice. Unaware that he was awake, she pinned the paperback under her knee and began plaiting her long hair into a messy braid. Her mouth was twisted in a contemplative frown, and for a moment, it seemed as though she were a university student studying for a test. That was how young she looked, sitting in the window seat, with the sunlight gilding her skin. She finished her braid and took the novel back into her hands. Lestrade noticed that she had a pair of his socks on, too. And he fell in love. Just like that. Without meaning, or explanation, he was in love. It seemed impossible after the travesty with his ex-wife, but he was. As the realization grew within him, he accepted the burden quietly. Maybe she would love him too. In time.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. An encrypted number. So, Mycroft. Uneager to disturb Stella, but also uneager to lose his job, he grabbed the mobile and put it to his ear. “What is it, Mycroft?” he said, a little annoyed. “We have a meeting today at 11 to discuss the events at Sherrinford. Or, we did. It is now 11:56. It must be this same carelessness that prompts you to the door of my brother.” During Mycroft’s remonstrations, Stella had started nipping at his neck. It was driving him crazy. He could barely concentrate on what Mycroft was saying. Her legs moved over the sheets, smooth, distracting. “Sherrinford has become my topmost priority, and I would hope that it’s yours too, Detective.” Lestrade pinned down one of Stella’s socked feet and flipped her over. She laughed into her hand. “Right, sorry, what was that? 11? Sorry, I got busy, I’ll be right over.” There was a dignified sniff. “I should hope so, Detective.” But Lestrade had already hung up the phone.

It was raining by the time Lestrade showered and dressed. Stella was still in his apartment when he left, but he didn’t mind. They kissed goodbye at the door. The domesticity of the moment filled Lestrade with love. He hastened out of his building and onto the sidewalk, where a long black car was parked against the curb. Nothing was ever subtle with Mycroft. The driver rolled down the window. “Gregory Lestrade, is it?” he inquired. Lestrade nodded and yanked open the door. Rain drops splattered against the back of his coat. He hoped he didn’t smell. Sometimes the rain gave him a slightly puppyish scent. Not suitable for meeting with Mycroft.

The car peeled away from the curb, slick as oil, and hurtled through the rain, faces and tail lights blurry in the steamy windows. Lestrade fidgeted with his folio. He wondered what they would talk about. It had been nearly a week since the incident at Sherrinford. Lestrade had thought Mycroft would give everyone a bit of a break. Instead, it was business as usual. He took out his phone and texted Stella. There’s coffee in the kitchen. Made it before I left. Please water the plant. He wanted to add something else, something personal, but he didn’t want to scare her off. Keep the t-shirt if you like. Good. Not too much, just the right amount.

Mycroft's imposing mansion came into view. Rich bastard. Lestrade’s phone beeped. I kept the shirt. Smiling a little to himself, he thanked the driver, got out of the car, and crunched across the gravel towards the front door. Lestrade gave the knocker a few good bangs and waited on the front steps, squinting into the downpour. Mycroft’s property was big and lush with trees and as the rain came down it whispered across their leaves. A butler answered the door. He was a sprightly fellow, with a bald, spotty head, and fine black boots that rapped across the tiled floor. He led Lestrade to another gigantic wooden door. “He’s in there. And--” the butler leaned forward conspiratorially, “he’s not in the best mood. Just thought you should know.” Lestrade blinked in surprise. Mycroft was not one to show emotion. If the butler knew, it must be bad.

Strewn around Mycroft’s office were large bins of files, all meticulously labeled and color-coded, with tantalizingly vague titles like THE OMEGA RESPONSE and R. HOLMES INITIATIVE MK. 7. The man himself was sitting at the desk, drinking a cup of tea and perusing a file. “Lestrade. You finally decided to make an appearance. It’s 12:47, where the devil were you?” Lestrade put his folio down and took off his jacket. “Scotland Yard stuff. Big case, massive. Really...important.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Alright, what’s the point of you interrogating me if you already know I was with someone? I know you wouldn’t understand it, but I think I have a decent shot of--” Mycroft cut him off with a raised finger. “We are not here to discuss your romance with Detective Inspector Stella Hopkins, although I will give Sherlock the news. He’ll be delighted. Sit.” Like an obedient dog, Lestrade took a seat across from Mycroft’s desk.

He put the file to the side and steepled his fingers. “I’m going to let you in on Sherrinford, but it’s only because you’ve proven your allegiance to members of my family in the past, and, despite Sherlock’s lack of confidence in your intellect, I happen to think you’re cleverer than you let on. Your involvement with the case of Moriarty and your personal entanglement with both Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson will also be helpful. Here’s the brief.” Mycroft cast a single sheet of cream-colored paper across the table. “Read it. Do not tell anyone that you have read it. Not here. Later. I’m sure I don’t have to add that the consequences for indiscretion are nearly illegal?” Lestrade nodded.

“Don’t worry about it.

“Good. I won’t. Now that my little sister is in legal limbo, you will be overseeing her transportation from place to place. Apparently, the government is requesting that I speak with them about next moves. This means ministers, of all kinds, although I daresay they will all be rather boring. Understand that this is the most important job you have ever been entrusted with. Understand that your title as Detective Inspector is inextricably linked to this service. Understand that it would be wise to wake up on time.”

At that exact moment, Lestrade’s phone buzzed. It took all of his willpower not to answer it.

“I got it. Thanks.” With that, he stood, slid the briefing into his folio, and exited the office.

Drinks? the text message read.

Sure he replied.

  
~✶~

Sherlock stood over the ruins of his chair. It was charred, and flaking with ash. John came up behind him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You can always get another chair, you know.” Sherlock’s mouth screwed up into a little frustrated knot. “Of course. I just hate buying furniture.” They surveyed the flat together.

It was absolutely demolished. The carpet was hardly more than a couple of threads, their books completely destroyed, and the table in the front room a mess of splinters. John picked up the remains of a series of detective novels he had given Sherlock for Christmas one year. None of the titles were recognizable. “We’re going to have get someone in here. Clean it up. No way we can do it all ourselves.” Sherlock shook his head fervently. “Ye of little faith. I refuse to have strangers bungling about the flat. Give me a moment.” He slid out his phone and began texting. “They should be over shortly.

A few minutes later, Lestrade, Stella Hopkins, Molly, and a tall red-headed man walked through the door. Mrs. Hudson trailed behind, holding Rosie in her arms. The eight of them stood near the entrance to the kitchen, gazing at the destruction in awe. Even Reagan, who was not acquainted with anyone except for Lestrade and Molly, could feel the grief leaching out of John and Sherlock. Molly thought about the Christmas party. Lestrade thought about all the cases they had solved in the front room. Stella thought about her first encounter with Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson thought about Mary. And John and Sherlock? They were thinking about time. Years, in fact. All the years, all the days, all the moments they had spent in 221B, at peace. With each other.

Rosie gave a little baby laugh and Lestrade chucked her lightly under the chin. Molly cooed at her. “What a darling.” Reagan put his arm protectively around Molly’s shoulder. Stella went to Lestrade’s side, and Mrs. Hudson waved one of Rosie’s hands in her direction. John looked up at Sherlock like he always did, with reverence, annoyance, exasperation, love, all those sweet and bitter things. Sherlock looked back at John.

“Now that we’re all here, we can begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the gap! Please enjoy.


End file.
